therealjayz replied to your post: I had the sickest (the bad kind) nightmare last…

your dream was trying to convey you getting doused with semen. vomit all over you was a metaphor

Only you would see vomit as a metaphor for semen. Haha. I should write a poem about that. I never showed you this one, which you inspired:

Burlesque Butcher Shop

Heard the slit slit horror story 
about the tear in her tenderloin,
couldn’t stomach it. 

There’s a nasty rumor of a bourbon roasted 
strip-tease, bacon strip baring slip-up. 
Don’t swallow that fat farce. 
It’s a pig fib. I keep my combo covered. 

Will the meat monster
pork a porker or does it want McRibs? 

There’s another one about a maggot melt, 
but that could be as cultural as canning 
fish eggs. 


Charleston in late January feels like 
the Northeast back in June. 
Atmospheric reverb melts 
muscles and all chords pull my hips.
My torso jumps to “Jeff Guitar.”
I’m all black lace and fringe and velvet and grunge. 
The band is concentrated tongues,
black light lit veins, the image of E.T. hugging Bin Laden,
and double M’s writhing to form an eight-armed Demi-God. 

This van is not a rental. Get on the roof. Screw Triangle.
Jameson? Hit this? Bubblegum? Why, yes, and thank you kindly. 
Piscean intuition and watercourse travel stories (brooks and glens.) 
“Oh damn girls, dry laughter, sip-a-da-ba-ba, glamour shots.
It’s all happening. Like when camp kids meet up after summer’s
over. Our bonfire was floral flavored smoke and “That Other Shit”
became the closest thing to a camp song. I was there in a backyard
in Philly. I was there. When the backseat van-fort burned down

with the roof rules, I received indemnities. Not a casualty 
of summer secession, but an interim citizen. This is the public
spirit of a novel nation-state. I am not a tenant of the comatose 
countryside. I am not an ex-ally and am more than an ally’s ex.
All the highways and the venues and the pit stops 
mapped this. The rapture never went down. This is
modern mankind.

My thoughts are cross dressers

drinking five dollar bottles of wine

while performing a maladroit square dance

in a moon bounce. When they ricochet into speech

they make no more sense than acid tubas,

but sound just as lovely. Pretty little fools that they are,

they apply too much glitter and lopsided lashes

to look more like basic babes. I’d like to eat them

like pulp fiction candy, but that craving is biological.

They are my own organic mucous taffy.

To the average consumer they’re probably

comparable to  those suckers encased with crickets

and scorpions. I can’t really think of any other product

that is all at once so unappealing, intriguing,

sugary, creepy, and comical. See what I mean now?

My thoughts are so absurd they think they are

creepy-crawly lollipops.


Notes on Brooklyn

Workshopped this today. Didn’t get written peer notes back, but the repeated response was, ”This didn’t make sense to me.” Really? Really? The one thing I ws with a narrative arc and everyone’s lost now? Is it truly that cryptic? What all should I explain? What does make sense?